


no good next to diamonds

by adversarya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: D&D Forgot Gendry Again, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Reunions, but i didn't, but still I'm here trying to justify your poor life choices, do better, if you could just canonize this, seriously D&D, that would be grand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:56:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adversarya/pseuds/adversarya
Summary: A bastard smith and a she-wolf reunite in Winterfell, and what happens after.





	1. when it's all said and done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY THE F**K HAS THIS CONVERSATION NOT HAPPENED YET?! There are some 7x06 spoilers here. Read at your own risk. 
> 
> Title from The Boxer Rebellion's "Diamonds."

Jon had proven once again his seeming immunity to death, but the fever he developed soon afterward demonstrated he was not fully invincible. It was not severe enough to leave anyone overly worried, nor for anyone to protest when Jon insisted on heading back to Winterfell straight away. That said, they did insist on him resting in his quarters and taking turns keeping an eye on him to make sure his health continued to improve. Though it was far more fuss than Jon was comfortable with, he realized it was a reasonable course of action and only put up minimal protest.

There was no real schedule or shifts, and Jon found himself alone for up to hours at a time—nobody was actually _that_ worried, apart from maybe Davos, whose gruff, fatherly concern could sometimes morph into an almost motherly coddling.

Jon hardly minded; ever since he had left Winterfell all those years ago to join the Night’s Watch, solitude had become a luxury he was seldom able to enjoy. So when he did encounter such a rare moment alone, he allowed himself to bask in doing absolutely nothing, listening to the gentle creaks and groans of the ship Daenerys had generously loaned to them for their return journey, the patter of footsteps above, even the sound of his own breathing. He tended not to linger on the last too long, as focusing on his own body was too close to focusing on his own thoughts, which never stayed pleasant or simple long, no matter how hard he might try to keep them from veering into dark and shadowy places. No, in these few quiet moments he would allow himself to focus on the creak of boards and other such inane things that were as close to having a clear and empty mind that he was ever likely to get.

Jon was in the process of idly counting the scales of the dragon carved into the desk in his quarters when his new watcher arrived. The knock on the door made him lose track.

“Enter.”

“Your grace.” Gendry greeted him with a respectful but somewhat stiff bow of the head.

Jon was pleased to see the blacksmith. The lad had been amongst strangers and old foes in a strange and hostile land, facing conditions unlike any he had ever known. Jon had placed their fate in his hands, and he had not failed them. It was more than enough to earn the smith a place in Jon’s good books, though he had a definite sense that the young man had his secrets. What they could be, considering how forthright he was about his parentage, his qualms with the Brotherhood, and his experience with Melisandre, Jon did not know. but thus far Gendry had impressed him, and Davos thought highly enough of him to not just track him down, but encourage him to lie out of concern for his safety, which said more to Jon than any flowery words of endorsement. If it was something he should know, he trusted Gendry would tell him in time. And if it wasn’t, then the lad was free to his secrets. After all, what man or woman alive didn’t have a secret or two?

“Ser Davos says we should be at White Harbor in a sennight. From there we’ll get to Stonecross by raft down the White Knife, granted it hasn’t frozen over yet. From there it’s only two day’s ride—perhaps three, with the snow. With any luck we’ll reach Winterfell within a fortnight,” Jon said.

“Aye, your grace. And I’m sure your people will be glad to see you returned.”

Jon could not help but wince at that. _They will be angered at how long I was gone_ , he though, _and that will be before I tell them the news._ But there was naught he could do to change the past, and bending the knee to Daenerys had been the right choice. Every day he grew more sure of that.

“What have you heard of Winterfell, Gendry?” Jon asked, changing the subject.

“Most folk in King’s Landing say it’s a frozen wasteland full of grim and dour people. That would be the few that would know of it, that is. Doubt any of them have been there, though. I’ve heard another tell it different, and those would be the words I’d trust.” 

“And what was this second opinion?”

“That it’s beautiful. Not ornamented the Southron way, but rugged like. That the castle’s always warm—because of something about hot water, never could quite make sense of that bit. That no man can stand before the heart tree in the Godswood there and not believe in the power of the old gods,” Gendry said. _I should tell him_ , he thought. _He should know_. 

“Quite high praise,” Jon murmured. The smith felt the full weight of the king’s scrutiny and knew that the excuse of _waiting for the right time_ , as he had told himself, would hold no longer. 

“There’s no place like it in Westeros, she told me. No place better in all the known world than Winterfell in a summer snow.”

“ _She_?” Jon repeated. “And who was this ‘she,’ who speaks so knowingly of Winterfell?”

“Your sister, your grace. Arya Stark.” Gendry realized that for all he had thought of her, for all the time he spent regretting the terms on which they parted, for all the evenings he spent in taverns, nursing the same tankard of ale for hours, straining his ears for news of the younger Stark girl, to at least know what had become of her, he had not spoken her name aloud since the day the Brotherhood had sold him to Stannis’s red witch like a hog at auction. 

“You knew Arya?” Jon asked. “Why did you not tell me this before?” His voice was accusing, but Gendry supposed that was fair enough. 

“There were other matters at hand, your grace.” Gendry knew it was a weak excuse. 

“We spent a good bit of time walking together, north of the Wall,” Jon quickly replied.

“I didn’t know how you would respond. Figured it best to wait,” Gendry said.

“When did you meet Arya?” Jon asked, after studying the smith for a few moments and deciding to let it go.

“It was the day your lord father lost his head. There was a man from the Night’s Watch come to collect recruits and spotted her in the crowd. Hacked off her hair and looked to pass her along as a boy so as to deliver her to Winterfell on the way. A few of the recruits were trying to scare her. She was threatening them back with the skinniest little sword I ever saw.” 

“Needle.” Jon’s eyes lit up. “She kept it?” 

“She loved that blade more than anything. Said it was a gift from you.” 

“A parting gift. Last time I saw her was the day I gave her that blade,” Jon said. “You never made it to the Wall.”

“Aye. Lannister men. They wanted me, but Yoren refused to hand me over, so they came back in the night and attacked. It hadn’t taken me long to realize your sister was a girl—thankfully the others never caught on, somehow—and I kept an eye on her. Tried, at least. She never made it easy.”

“No, Arya wouldn’t,” Jon agreed with a chuckle.

“She returned the favor. Saved my sorry arse more than once.”

“And what happened?”

“We made a run for it, but they caught us soon enough. Arya managed to convince them a boy that they killed already was the one they were looking for, and we were rounded up and marched to Harrenhal.” 

“Harrenhal?!” Jon shouted. He had heard stories about the place, and none of them were good.

“I will not lie, your grace, it was not a pleasant experience. But when Lord Tywin was around it was more… bearable,” Gendry said, unable to think of a better word. “Arya managed to find a way to escape and got us out. She was determined to get to your brother Robb at Riverrun, but the Brotherhood captured us. Probably would have let us go if the Hound hadn’t come along and told them who Arya was. Got it in their minds to ransom her off to your brother. Arya wasn’t too happy about it, but they were taking her where she wanted to go, so she didn’t fight it too much. She wanted me to go with her, to smith for King Robb, but I told her I was going to stay with the Brotherhood. Got it into my head that it was the right thing to do. That I could be my own master. I was young and stupid. They sold me to Stannis’s red witch not a sennight later. Arya tried to stop them. I hurt her, and she still fought for me. And that’s the last time I ever saw her. It was about a fortnight before the massacre at the Twins. Don’t know if they ransomed off Arya before it happened. I hoped I’d hear rumors of her, back in King’s Landing, but I never did. I’m sorry, your grace.” 

“Arya’s in Winterfell,” said Jon.

“She’s alive.” A relieved smile crept across Gendry’s face. There was something in his expression that gave Jon pause. _Could it be?_  

“Gendry, I do believe I am glad we did not have this conversation earlier.”

“Your grace?” _He’s still nervous_ , Jon thought.

“Something tells me that if we had, you might have been more favorable to Ser Davos’s plan of sending you straight to Winterfell. And if you had, I’d likely be dead. So yes, I am decidedly glad we didn’t have this conversation to begin with.” The lighting in the cabin was quite dim, but Jon strongly suspected that the young smith’s ears were a few shades redder than they had been a minute before. 

“What, and tell her I left her ‘best brother’ behind to get himself killed beyond the Wall? You have _met_ your sister, haven’t you?” Gendry retorted, eyes wide.

Jon himself was surprised at the heartiness of the laugh that tumbled from his chest—as was Gendry, judging by the stunned look on his face, which only inspired him to laugh harder.

 _We are not our fathers_ , Jon thought. _But mayhaps they got a few things right. Things that bear repeating._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a second part that takes place in Winterfell. And perhaps a third part. What would the third part be? Ask me in a review and maybe I'll tell you. 
> 
>  
> 
> For those of you who read Heirs To The Glimmering World: 
> 
> As you may have noticed, I am not dead. (Pretty sweet, right?). Neither is the fic. I just started writing a lot more film criticism type stuff (occasionally people even pay me, woo-hoo!) so I'm kind of always writing but it's almost always for other people now as opposed to for myself. And the few moments I do have to write my own stuff, I also have some original things I am working on. 
> 
> But I am determined that the fic will be completed, ideally before GoT ends, definitely before ASoIaF is done (which I realize probably gives me another decade or so, considering good King George's track record and the 15 or so other projects he also seems to be working on at the moment).


	2. are you angry with me now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could really be marked complete at this point, but canon just really isn't cutting it for me this season, so you're gonna get four chapters. You shall profit from my disappointment as much as my productivity will suffer for it.

_“The king has returned!”_

Arya did not know who announced the arrival; she did not linger to place the voice. She just ran until she saw Jon—older and sterner and scarred but still so very recognizably her favorite brother—and then once she did see him she ran faster.

“Jon!”

“ _Arya._ ” Jon’s eyes widened for a moment in disbelief—only at the call of his name had he recognized the woman running straight towards him. He struggled for to reconcile the gangly little girl he bid farewell to so many years before with the young woman rushing toward him. _It’s still Arya_ , his heart reminded him, and a wide smile finally spread across his face.

He opened his arms to catch her just as he always used to, a lifetime ago, and she jumped into his arms, just as she always used to, arms wrapped around his shoulders in a tight hug that he returned just as firmly. 

Arya realized that she cannot think of the last time she was held like this—the few embraces Sansa had offered since her return were so feeble and stiff as to be vaguely insulting—and Jon had always given the best hugs anyway. For the first time since returning to Winterfell, Arya actually felt like she was home.

Eventually she let go, because she had to—Jon was king now, after all, and had a lot of things to do.

And it was only then that Arya noticed _him_ , the ghost of a bull-headed boy that she had once called her closest friend, standing just a few yards away. 

“Gendry?” She wondered aloud, not quite trusting her eyes. 

“Milady,” Gendry returned with a bow of his head.

“Do not call me milady!” Arya snapped, only realizing after the fact how she was echoing the past.

She had expected to see Sansa again, to see Jon. She had not expected this, not expected him nor the flood of strange emotions suddenly swirling around in her chest that appeared at the sight of him.

“As milady commands,” Gendry softly replied.

Arya did not want to leave it there. She wanted to punch him for choosing to leave her, hug him for not dying, for coming back. To ask him where he had been and what lead him here, to serving her brother, the King in the North, an option she had once offered him and he had turned town, in spite of her pleas. But while Arya did not care one whit about how people judged her for unladylike behavior, she was wary of gossip, and there were too many eyes and ears currently hanging on their every word and movement. So she said nothing, and followed after Jon, who followed after Sansa back towards the castle. Perhaps the wait would be for the best. It would give her time to puzzle out the strange emotions creeping through her chest. 

At supper Gendry was seated at a lower table, and afterward she had already agreed to spend the last scrap of daylight training with Podrick in Ser Brienne’s absence. The squire was still far from what Arya considered to be good—honestly, she was amazed that he had managed to keep himself alive for this long—but he was slighlty less hopeless than he used to be. However, he had no natural aptitude with a blade. Considering the length of time he travelled and trained with Brienne, he really should have been far more advanced than he was.

“I think Pod is more a lover than a fighter,” Brienne had commented jokingly to Arya as she double-checked her saddlebag in preparation for her trip, watching Podrick spoil his horse with apples sneaked from the kitchens. However, the squire in question must have overheard, for he blushed a deep reddish-purple that indicated to Arya that there was _definitely_ a story there, though she was equally certain that she had no interest in learning what that story was. Still, though he was far from a challenging opponent, he took being repeatedly bested by a woman with good humor, which was far more than Arya could say for the vast majority of the swordsmen to be found around Winterfell. His experience as Brienne’s squire also meant that he did not so much bat an eyelash at Arya’s trousers or “unbecoming” behavior. All things considered, she would rather spar with Pod than any of her other options, when Brienne was not available. However, Arya’s mind was elsewhere this particular night—enough so that Podrick _almost_ managed to best her once, much to his delight. To prove to both herself and him that this was due to a lapse in attention on her part as opposed to him miraculously improving, Arya had him disarmed and flat on his arse about five seconds later. 

“I yield,” Podrick groaned, his hands raised in surrender. Arya looked up and saw that the servants had started going around to light the lanterns.

“I think that’s enough for today, don’t you, ser?” Arya asked with a smirk.

“I would say so, Lady Arya,” he wheezed, slowly getting to his feet.

Arya smiled as she headed out of the practice yard in the direction of the forge.

 

 

Though it was full dark, Gendry remained hard at work. The forge had lacked a properly trained smith since Mikken’s death years before, but it was still fully stocked and functional even if the men who had inhabited it in the interim had not known how to utilize it properly. 

After Jon had greeted far more people than Gendry could even keep track of—not that he had really tried to, with his mind still reeling from seeing _Arya_ again, at once so different but also just as he remembered—he had been ushered into the great hall for a modest but hearty welcoming feast. As a smith Gendry was seated at a lower table amongst guards and a few squires belonging to the scattered handful of lords that lingered in Winterfell instead of returning to their own keeps to wait for Jon’s call to arms.

When Gendry finished eating, he noticed that both Jon and Davos seemed well occupied, and so decided he might as well do a little exploring. Winterfell was hardly the size of King’s Landing, or even Flea Bottom. If they went looking for him, they were sure to find him soon enough.

After strolling the perimeter of the keep through various courtyards, Gendry wandered into a dense but well-manicured copse of trees that could only be the godswood. He met no one on his walk, but when he reached the small clearing where the bleeding-eyed heart tree grew on the edge of a gently steaming hot spring ( _“Father always used to sit in the shade of the heart tree. He prayed occasionally but it was mostly just to think about whatever was on his mind. I used to join him sometimes. I wasn’t half as good as he was at sitting still or being quiet, though.”_ ), there was already someone waiting there. The figure’s back was turned, but from the strange chair-like contraption on which he sat Gendry knew him at once to be none other than Bran Stark. 

“Gendry Waters. Or should I say Baratheon?” The young lordling greeted, his voice eerily flat, not even turning to look at Gendry.

Though he had been in Winterfell less than a day, the smith had already heard rumors that Ned Stark’s last trueborn son had gone a little strange. _They had not exaggerated._

“I did not mean to intrude, my lord,” Gendry said, turning to leave.

“You did not intrude. I was expecting you.”

“Oh,” Gendry said, unsure of what else he could possibly say in response to something like that.

“A broad, blue-eyed stag charges into battle with his war hammer once again, one wolf at his side and another on his mind. Some might say the past has come to haunt the future.”

“I’m not my father, my lord. Never met him. Don’t really know much about him besides stories and rumors, but even those are enough. I’m not much like him, and I never will be. Don’t want to.”

“The gods are not cruel, nor kind. They do not force what has been to be once again. On the contrary. It is an opportunity to do better. Or worse. The gods care little.”

Gendry nodded. Bran still had his back turned to him, so he couldn’t see—or maybe he could, little would surprise Gendry any more—but once again, he had no idea what there possibly was to say to something like that. 

The smith waited to see if the young lord would continue, but he did not. After a few minutes, Gendry slowly retreated from the clearing, giving Bran an opportunity to stop him if he wished. He did not.

Bran’s cryptic words echoing in his head, Gendry wandered aimlessly around Winterfell’s grounds for a little while before he managed to stumble upon the forge, and thoughts of gods and ghosts were replaced by comfortingly familiar concerns of fire and steel. It was there that Jon found him, trailed by several guards carrying intimidatingly large crates of dragonglass.

“Can you make weapons of this?” Jon asked, as Gendry inspected a lump of obsidian larger than his head.

“’Course,” Gendry said, huffing indignantly. Sure it wasn’t steel, but he had likely started swinging a hammer earlier than Jon Snow had gotten his first wooden sword. Besides, Tobho Mott, like most great craftsmen, had been somewhat strange in his ways. He had started Gendry off chiseling arrowheads from stone, and had not let the boy so much as touch steel until he had perfected it. _Men of old mastered this before starting to forge steel_ , Mott would tell him, _and so will you_. “What sort of weapons?”

“Every kind. As many as you can, as fast as you can. Obsidian and fire, that’s the only way we can kill them.”

“And Valyrian steel,” Gendry added, remembering how that awful creature had shattered like glass with the swing of Jon’s sword.

“Aye, that too. Unfortunately, unless you know of a place where the stuff might be hiding—”

“I don’t, your grace,” Gendry admitted. “But I do have an idea.”

“Go on.” 

“What if dragonglass and Valyrian steel are one and the same?”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “How could that be?”  

“I trained under Tobho Mott in King’s Landing, the only master smith in Westeros properly trained to forge Valyrian steel. It takes hotter fires than regular steel to rework it, and it’s far lighter, which got me to thinking it might not be steel at all.”

The pieces came together in Jon’s head. “You think to try melting it down with dragon fire.”  

“Exactly, your grace.”

“And if this works, you would be able to forge it?” Jon asked. The skepticism in his voice rankled Gendry’s pride.  

“Of course.”  

Jon chuckled incredulously.  

“I shall write to Daenerys and see what can be done. But I trust you have enough to keep you occupied in the meantime?”

“Aye, your grace.”  

Jon nodded, satisfied, and wished Gendry luck before departing.

It had been years since Gendry had worked with stone instead of metal. His hands had been much smaller then, and his arms weaker, but it all came back to him soon enough. He fell under the familiar spell of the work, his world narrowed to the lump of stone in front of him and the weapon it would become. Such was his focus that he did not notice the sky grow dark, or Arya Stark sneaking in soon after. 

Arya watched him work for a while, entirely oblivious to her presence. _If I were the enemy he’d be a dead man_ , she thought crossly. _We’ll have to fix that._ She considered scolding him in greeting, but found herself continuing to study him by the light of the fire. She could see the movement of the muscles in his back and arms through the fabric of his tunic, and was suddenly overwhelmed by memories of Harrenhal. Not of the cages or the Tickler or Lord Tywin’s smug face for once, but of sneaking into the forge to watch Gendry work. She would tell herself she liked looking at the swords, and she did, but if her memory served her right her eyes had been drawn elsewhere often enough.

 _You should stand side-face_. She remembered feeling quite smug upon saying that, thinking it irrefutably proved her study of his form had not in any way been related to the sculpted muscles of his bare torso or the way his broad shoulders flexed with every swing of the hammer.

Arya felt her cheeks flushing and scowled. She was _Arya Stark_. She did not blush like some silly fainting princess. The forge was hot. That was it, and that was all. 

“The red witch was on my list,” she blurted out, looking for an escape from the thoughts that seemed to be turning against her. Gendry nearly dropped his hammer on his foot in surprise before swerving around to face her. “I thought she killed you, so I was going to kill her. I still might.”

“She tried,” Gendry admitted as his heart rate attempted to return to normal. “You were right about her. You were right about the Brotherhood. You were right about a lot of things, and I should have listened to you.”

“You should have,” she agreed. Gendry realized that he could not read the truth of her feelings in her face the way he could when they were children. He had hardly expected different—it had been _years_ , after all, but it saddened him nonetheless.

“I kept hoping I would hear news of you. That you had made it back to your family, that you were safe. And I heard tell of King Jon and Lady Sansa, but never a word about you. I thought you might have died at the Twins. Seemed most likely. That you were dead and I had left you, thinking being with your brother would keep you safe. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to ever fully believe it. Couldn’t bear it. When Jon told me you were here, that you were alive, I… I really am glad to see you,” Gendry finished somewhat lamely, wishing he could have thought of better ones.

He stepped towards her. Arya had not expected him to move closer and found herself instinctually reaching for Needle.

“You got your sword back,” Gendry noted.

Arya nodded. 

“I’m glad.”

“Killed the thief who had it,” Arya said flatly.

“What happened to you, Arya?”

“What do you mean?” she asked back. 

Gendry, not willing to let it go, looked pointedly toward her hand, now rested on her hip in a failed attempt to disguise her reaching for her weapon in reaction to his approach as something other than what it was.

So she told him—not quite everything, but far more than she had told anyone else. Far more than she had ever intended to tell him, even, but the words seemed to slip through her lips without requesting permission, and every word that she spoke that he did not back away from her in horror and disgust chipped away at the heavy weight she had not until that moment realized her shoulders were carrying. 

“I don’t regret it,” she finished. And she meant it. She had more than her fair share of sleepless nights, spent wide awake in the aftermath of horrid dreams or unable to bring herself to sleep for the thought of them, but though many of those night terrors were the ghosts of things she had seen, never were they of things she had done. It was actually in the days after she would cross a name off her list that she slept best. Dreamlessly. Sweet dreams never came, had not since before her father had lost his head, but the nightmares kept away for a little while, and that was enough. 

Gendry’s eyes, brilliantly blue as winter roses, were still full of empathy and understanding and concern _for her._ It meant so much more than she ever expected, but she could not comprehend how he could possibly be looking at her so if he truly understood what she was telling him. 

“If I had to go back, I would not spare a single one,” Arya emphasized.

“I believe you,” he said, and she could tell he meant it. “I’m so sorry, Arya.”

“Sorry?” 

“I shouldn’t have left you. You talk of not having regrets, but I do. I regret that choice more than anything.”

“The red witch bought you like cattle. You didn’t have a choice.”

“You know what I meant.”

Of course she did. _I can be your family!_ It was not the sort of offer she made lightly, nor was his rejection was not the sort of sting that was easily forgotten.

 _You’d be milady_.

She had taken it as a rejection, then. But she had also been a little girl, and thinking back on it now, his words struck differently than they had back in that cave years ago. There was something alarming in that thought, so she pushed it away.

“Ser Davos saved me from the witch. Put me on a boat in the middle of the night and told me to row for King’s Landing. Didn’t know how to swim, had only ever even been on a boat the once before. I knew if I started panicking I was as good as dead, so I started planning, thinking of what I’d do soon as I was on solid ground again. But no matter what future I imagined, there were two things I made up my mind to do. The first was to find you.”

“And the second?”

“To never step foot in a bloody rowboat again.”

Arya smirked slightly at that. It wasn’t a laugh—it was barely even a smile—but Gendry decided to count it as a victory anyway. 

“But then I reached King’s Landing,” Gendry continued, “and the news of the massacre at the Twins had beat me there. And I had hope, because there was no mention of you, only the Young Wolf and his lady mother, but I had no idea of where to look. Still, I should’ve tried.”

“You never would have found me,” she said.

“I should’ve looked anyway,” he insisted.

Arya swallowed, in the hope that it might clear the lump she felt caught in her throat. It did not.

“I—I mean, I…” _What had he done to her?_ The stupid bull had been back in her life for less than a day. He had absolutely _no right_ to make her feel like this—and what even _was_ this, exactly? It was all so confusing and Arya _hated_ feeling confused. 

“I should go. It’s late,” she improvised hurriedly. “Goodnight, Gendry.”

“Goodnight, Arya.” 

Arya’s heart flopped in her chest not unlike a fish out of water, and she resisted the urge to stomp her foot at how _unfair_ it was. After all, she was fully aware that life was not fair nor just nor kind. But she had spent years learning to control her emotions, to dull and purge herself from those that would not aid her mission, and she had been quite good at it. 

Arya shook her head, as if thoughts were physical things that could be forcibly removed. But it had been a long, strange, eventful day, she rationalized, and it was to be expected that she would be left feeling somewhat off. _I just need sleep_ , she thought. _In the morning I’ll feel normal again._

 

 

In the morning Arya did indeed feel more like herself. The very air seemed less tense now that Jon had returned. The lords stopped their grumbling and Littlefinger made himself more scarce, though she knew full well that did not mean he was not plotting something. Even the sky was perfectly clear, and Arya admired the sunrise on her way to the practice yard.

 She was almost through with her morning exercises when she noticed Gendry making his way across the courtyard towards the forge.

“Bull!” she called.

It had been years since Gendry had heard his old nickname, but he turned nonetheless.

“I hear you have a warhammer now,” she said, gesturing for him to join her

“My work awaits me in the forge,” Gendry said.

“This won’t take long,” Arya insisted with a smirk.

Gendry tried not to smile, but failed. 

“As milady commands.” 

But after retrieving his warhammer from the forge and joining Arya in the practice yard, he remembered something important. “If you get injured, your brother will murder me.”

Arya snorted at the thought. “You would have to hit me first.” 

Gendry hesitated.

“If that were to happen, I would be your champion in trial by combat when Jon calls for your head,” she said, slipping into a starting stance. “But that’s _not_ going to happen.”

Gendry muttered something that might have been _she’ll be the death of me_ , but raised his hammer anyway.

Arya had him flat on his back in thirty seconds. He stared up at her, a gleam in his eyes that she could not quite place. She flicked Needle across his cheek, leaving behind a shallow cut not unlike a cat scratch, and his looked turned to one of incredulity.

“Seven hells, Arya! What was that for?” 

“Leaving me. Don’t do it again,” she warned, before offering a hand to help him to his feet.

“Never,” Gendry promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the Cersei symposium is a dumbass decision that no one with half a brain would actually attend (see: the ruins formerly known as the Sept of Baelor), so I decided to mostly ignore it. Brienne still gets sent away because show 'verse Sansa is actually that ridiculous and Brienne is too loyal for her own good, but Jon and Daenerys just ignore the invite like sane human beings, instead of bringing all their armies south when the giant-ass zombie horde North of the Wall now has a FIRE-BREATHING ZOMBIE DRAGON and the only barrier to their laying siege to Westeros is A WALL MADE OF ICE. 
> 
> If this season doesn't end with the Wall coming down, I'll eat my hat.


	3. run for cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am not letting you set off on an adventure without me,” Arya whispered back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My extreme disappointment at the end of season 7 has turned this into a full-blown fic. This chapter is somewhat short, but I wanted to post something today (I'm imagining there are many of you out there, like me, who are seriously craving some fic to help make up for Sunday's let-down of a finale). 
> 
> You'll notice here the waste of time that was the King's Landing Summit does not happen, because Daenerys has agreed to help with the battle against the Army of the Dead and therefore no one is desperate enough make the futile attempt that is speaking with Cersei the Untrustworthy.

It took two days for Jon to inquire about the whereabouts of Brienne of Tarth.

He was not pleased with the answer.

“What were you _thinking_ , Sansa!” Jon snapped. “She’s one of our best soldiers, and she’s got a Valyrian steel greatsword. We need her here, and _alive_.”

“I was thinking that Brienne spoke of Jaime Lannister fondly—” 

“And you sent her to _Cersei_!” How could his sister be so clever about some things and so truly stupid about others? “By all accounts, Jaime Lannister is in love with his twin. Do you understand nothing of how the lovesick mind works?” 

Sansa flinched as if physically struck, her icy mask slipping for all of a second before sliding back into place. “No, your grace. I suppose I do not.”

“How long ago did you send her away?” Jon asked more gently. 

“Five days.” Sansa paused. “She left her squire behind.” 

Jon turned to Davos, seated at his side. “See that Podrick is given the fastest horse in the stables and is sent off at once. Tell him to ride through the night, and give him coin to trade horses as necessary. Time is of the essence.”

“At once, your grace,” Davos agreed, rising to his feet.

Jon turned back to address Sansa once more, but she was gone.

He and Davos dealt with a few more matters of concern until Jon found the throbbing in his temples that often came with discussions of politicking unbearable and called for a recess. Finding respite in the biting cold, Jon strolled the perimeter of the keep and stumbled upon Sansa watching over the training yard. A veritable blur of a human being who could only be Arya was dancing around Gendry, who was fending her off admirably while Podrick Payne watched on with wide-eyed awe.

“Arya’s letting him practice with the hammer to redeem himself,” Sansa commented as Jon came to a stop next to her. “She’s gotten it into her mind that he needs to be able to wield a sword as well.” 

Jon nodded—it was a fair assessment. Should Gendry find himself unarmed in the midst of battle, his odds of encountering a mislaid sword were much better than those of finding another war hammer. 

“You accuse me of not knowing love, but at least I am not blind,” Sansa said coldly, narrowing her eyes at the pair dueling below them. In that moment, Jon thought he looked just like her lady mother. 

“Nor am I,” Jon replied dryly.

 

 

Within a fortnight, a proud Podrick returned with Brienne, much to Jon’s relief.

Gendry still could not best Arya when armed with a sword, but he could hold his own against her with a war hammer. They had quickly fallen back into step—exchanged the rest of their stories about their time apart, grown familiar with the little changes in each other’s faces. Gendry had told her about his parentage, and had found her reaction decidedly underwhelming. 

“It makes sense,” she said with a shrug after a moment’s consideration.

“What, that’s all you’ve got to say?” he grumbled.

“Don’t get fat, _my lord_ ,” Arya snarked, lobbing a misshapen acorn that had been deemed unworthy by Winterfell’s squirrel population at his forehead. Gendry caught it before it could hit his face.

“Your reflexes are getting better,” she commented with a nod of approval.

“They needed to, being around you all the time,” he retorted, only half-joking.

 

 

Instead of replying to Jon’s letter about Valyrian steel via raven, Daenerys showed up at Winterfell in the flesh. On Drogon. 

“ _Dragon!_ ” a watchman shouted out, to immediate effect. The scores who ran inside for cover ran straight into the scores rushing outside with equal urgency upon hearing the announcement, leaving Daenerys’s first impression of Winterfell one of mild chaos.

“Queen Daenerys,” Jon greeted, offering her a hand to help her dismount. “You must forgive me for not having a better welcoming prepared, as I was not aware you were intending to visit.”

“There is naught to forgive,” Daenerys said with a regal wave of her hands, encased in cream-colored calfskin gloves. “I merely thought to offer your smith a ride to Dragonstone so that he may start his work as soon as possible. After all, time does not run in our favor, does it?” 

“No,” Jon agreed, “it most certainly does not.”

Jon sent a guard to fetch the smith as he lead Daenerys to his solar, out of the cold and away from the prying eyes of the quickly gathering crowd.

 

 

Gendry was refining the edges of a dragonglass spear when the guard stopped at the entrance to his forge.

“Can I help you with something?” 

“Pack a bag, quick. Seems like you’re riding a dragon today, lad.” The guard spoke as blandly as if he were saying the balance of his sword needed fixing.

Gendry blinked dumbly. “What?” 

Arya, who had always been too curious for her own good and therefore was eavesdropping from a few yards away, snapped to action before Gendry did, rushing off to the keep to gather her things.

Mere minutes later, Arya fell into step with the smith as the guard led him through the keep’s maze of hallways. The guard glanced back at the new addition and the rucksack slung over her shoulder and stopped, frowning.

“The king did not mention anything about you, my lady.”

“Does the king tell you all of his plans?” Arya asked.  

“No, my lady,” the guard admitted.

“Then I suggest you lead on,” Arya said, a hint of warning slipping into her voice.

The guard led on.

“What are you up to?” Gendry asked in a hushed tone, his lips so close to her ear she could feel the heat of his breath. Contrary to her expectations, she had not become desensitized to his presence over time since his return. His nearness still stirred feelings unlike any she had known before. Sometimes it frustrated her to no end because it undermined the self-control for which she had worked so hard, other times she simply enjoyed feeling something pleasant, something new and untainted by everything she has seen and done and endured.

“I am not letting you set off on an adventure without me,” she whispered back. “We discussed this, don't you remember?” 

Gendry said nothing but she could tell he was fighting off a smile.

 

 

In truth, Jon was not surprised to see Arya trailing behind Gendry. His sister’s fondness for the smith had stirred up some whispers amongst the residents of Winterfell—albeit very quiet ones, considering how terrified many were of Arya and her swordsmanship. _The little she-wolf_ , people had started to call her. Jon knew Arya had heard the moniker, and enjoyed it greatly. Probably would have enjoyed it more without the “little” part, but still. Sansa thought her sister's friendship with the smith inappropriate—though, she was firmly convinced that their relationship exceeded the bounds of “friendship”, which Jon refused to believe. He kept an eye on it, but he was convinced that Arya would not start tumbling with the smith in secret right under his nose, even if said smith was willing to train with her using live steel and surprised her with custom armor. Sansa considered him a fool for it, but then again she usually did for one reason or another.

“Gendry Waters, your grace,” Jon introduced, attempting to keep the focus on the matter at hand. 

Gendry’s bow was stiff and somewhat awkward, but earnest. 

“The smith I recall seeing briefly at Dragonstone, but who is this?” Daenerys asked, studying Arya curiously.

“My sister, your grace, Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell,” Jon introduced. Arya did not curtsey, but bowed her head respectfully. 

“She seems prepared for a journey,” Daenerys commented.

“I wish to accompany you, your grace,” Arya explained.

“Oh?” Daenerys wondered, arching a perfectly sculpted brow and looking to Jon in askance. 

“The first I am hearing of it, your grace,” Jon admitted.

“Seeing as you are borrowing our smith, I figured it would only be fair for Jon and the North as a whole have an envoy,” Arya explained, her voice smooth and words well-practiced. 

“And here I thought that would be the smith himself,” Daenerys said, tilting her head as she returned to studying Arya, who met her gaze directly and unflinchingly.

“I cannot read or write, your grace,” Gendry muttered, ears burning in embarrassment. “I was never taught.”

The teasing glint in Daenerys’s eyes melted away. “I would be happy to have any sister of Jon Snow’s as a guest in my halls, assuming he is willing to part with her company.”

Jon gave a curt nod, and Arya knew that though the gesture was an approval, he was not happy. She was certain he would figure out a way to speak to her before they left.

Sure enough, the moment they made it back to the courtyard and Daenerys beckoned a very reluctant Gendry forward to meet Drogon, Jon pulled Arya aside. 

“What are you up to, Arya?” Jon asked plainly.

“Like I told the queen—” Arya faltered when Jon gave her a look so uncannily like the one her father would so often bestow upon her when she attempted to give him excuses that she forgot what she had even intended to say.

“The _truth_ , Arya,” Jon demanded.

Arya sighed, but relented, her voice lowered to a cautious whisper. “Daenerys doesn’t know about Gendry’s father, does she?” 

“No,” Jon admitted. 

“In Braavos I heard tales of the dragon queen’s temper. Say she figures it out? Or one of her advisors? What happens then? You need him alive, and while she might be impulsive enough to roast your smith she wouldn’t harm your sister,” Arya insisted quietly, before continuing in a voice closer to bashful than anything Jon had heard from her since she was a girl, “he’s my friend.”

Jon sighed, recognizing the stubborn clench to her jaw that meant any and all attempts at changing her mind would be entirely futile. “Fine. But know that I don’t much like it.”

Arya nodded. She could live with that. 

Jon pulled her into a tight but brief hug. “Best not keep the dragon queen waiting.”

Arya nodded, her face splitting into a gleeful smile. She was going to ride an actual _dragon_ today.


End file.
